


until the moon of daybreak

by midheaven



Category: Hinatazaka46 (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/F, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:42:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26673106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midheaven/pseuds/midheaven
Summary: the first time you see her, you’re on opposite sides.or: ayaka and shiho try to get it right.
Relationships: Kato Shiho/Takamoto Ayaka
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	1. if you entreat me with your loveliest lie

**Author's Note:**

> this work ran away from me so hard.
> 
> it’s also sponsored by ayaka’s azatokawaii promo vid & i wrote this entirely fueled by the [yearning] that vid has subjected me to, woops
> 
> please know that i’ve never released so many works in such a short span of time, i’m surprised at my behaviour myself ... this is the last for a while, i hope. 
> 
> also i know it may seem like i decide my ships by spinning a wheel, which shouldn’t be too far from the truth, my 46g ships in particular are very niche ones ... i just get drawn to them, i guess
> 
> i realised very, very belatedly that the pov character is ambiguous for pretty much half of the fic, and i couldn’t find a way to rewrite it so it becomes clear, so i’ll cheat and say: _the pov character is ayaka._
> 
> title from sosei in the hyakunin isshu

今来むと  
いひしばかりに  
長月の  
  
有明の月を  
待ち出でつるかな  
  
  
_Ima kon to  
Iishi bakari ni  
Nagatsuki no  
  
Ariake no tsuki o  
Machi idetsuru kana  
  
  
Just because she said,  
"In a moment I will come,"  
I've awaited her  
  
Until the moon of daybreak,  
In the long month, has appeared._  
  
  
素性 

_1585._

the first time you see her, you’re on opposite sides. 

she arrives from the sea on a strange vessel. with strange, pale men. the tallest of them unbinds the ropes that hold her wrists behind her back. you watch her as she wrings her hands, as she steps forward reluctantly. 

it’s odd. when she speaks, you pick out some words you know. some words you can’t understand at all. she looks more like you than she does the rest of her company. is she from a nearby island? or farther away?

your chief eventually steps in and negotiates. you go back to what you were doing. the string of flowers you’ve been putting together. all different colours, all different sizes. 

a shadow casts. you look up. the girl. now that she’s closer, you think she could be from your island. you see the scars, too. _a slave,_ you surmise. 

“ _plant-product?_ ” she asks. points to your hands. 

it’s odd. the word she says is more often used for fruit, but it can mean flower in the sense that it’s _also_ a product of a plant. you’ve also heard it used as _result of labour_. you have a different word for flower. 

“ _flower._ ” you say. you point to the nearby tree you plucked one from. point to the fruit that hangs, soon ripe. “ _plant-product._ ”

her eyes widen before she grabs something from her pocket. an odd square-shaped thing she opens. takes a stick-like object in her other hand. the stick makes marks in the square object. 

she points to the flowers. counts them, but it’s odd. _two_ , _five_ , and _nine_ are familiar. others sound close, while the rest sound nowhere near yours. 

you count them in your tongue. she marks it again. 

  
  


it rains. 

the strange, white men are still here. wandering around. they ask their questions through her. she delivers your island’s answer. 

you cross paths again. 

“ _roon?_ ” she asks. she opens her palm and lets the water pass through her fingers. 

her smile is wide. you find yourself unable to tear your gaze away. you realise you’ve found her beautiful since the day she arrived. 

you laugh. “ _rain,_ ” you say. 

“ _rain_ ,” she says, and it almost makes your heart hurt. this girl saying something in your tongue. 

  
  
  


she’s even more beautiful in the sun. 

the gods’ graces have made the sky clear. you wake up before first light. you find her sitting by the shore. 

her hair glows golden once the sun starts its ascent. so do her eyes. you wonder if someone could ever be blessed like this. you wonder if _you_ could ever be blessed by this sight. you must have pleased the heavens in some way for them to reward you with this. 

she says something you completely do not understand. she tries again, and asks, but it’s gibberish to you. you fist handful of sand. 

  
  
  


uneasiness stirs. 

the people of your island are growing unhappy with the men. you don’t know why. soon enough, they’re shooed away. threatened with all the fathers and their knives. 

they board their boat. she’s the last one to. her hands bound in rope again. 

you run toward her, against your better judgment. your mother calls, frightened. you run and run until you’re ankle deep in water. 

the string of flowers you made on that first day is bunched into your fist. you unravel it. 

she turns to you. the man holding her still looks cross, but you couldn’t care less. 

you place it around her neck. she smiles. “thank you,” she says. her mouth curling perfectly around it. 

  
  
  


_1641._

the next time you meet, she’s brought a bit closer to you. 

you recognise her the moment you see her, her head ducked as she writes a letter. it floors you. she tilts her head and the moment the sun hits her eyes, all the memories come back to you, a flood of images. the sea. the sand. a string of flowers. a notebook. a pen. a ship. 

but it doesn’t do you much good. 

she’s your lady-in-waiting. nothing can come of it. 

and it looks like she has no recollection of you. 

she brings you your breakfast in the mornings. accompanies you on your walks. readies your clothes for the day. doesn’t speak to you unless it’s saying _yes, m’lady_ or _no, m’lady_. 

but the fact that she can speak to you _at all_ is a miracle in itself, you think. 

  
  
  


you have a garden. 

it calms you. you tend to it often. you grow a variety of things. rosemary. sage. hydrangeas. sunflowers. 

you watch a butterfly perch atop one of them. smile at the warmth it brings to your chest. 

but your heart drops when you hear the telltale sign of porcelain shattering. 

you turn your head. it’s her. she’s dropped your tea. it’s spilled all around her feet, a fragrant puddle.

her mouth is agape. her face deathly pale. her hands shaking as she wrings her wrists. 

_ah,_ you think. you see that you’re surrounded by blooms, and it all makes sense. 

_she remembers._

  
  


“how could this have happened?”

her voice is a lovely, gentle one. she’s slow with her words, almost as if she’s moving in amber. you wish you could bottle it. 

“i can only think of fate,” you answer. 

how comforting to think that. that something more powerful than you can comprehend somehow conspires to put her in your path. you look at her and there’s no way for you to think otherwise. 

“i only remember meeting you on an island,” she tells you. “i was a slave of the expeditioners. captured so i can work as an interpreter.”

“a _literate_ slave?” you point out. 

“i was taught only so i would be able to interpret,” she says. 

“i see,” you say. “the island is all i can recall, too.” you scratch your palm. you itch to stroke her hair. “nothing before. nothing since.”

“will this keep happening again?”

you can’t tell if she’s hopeful or afraid. 

you set your hands down on your lap. “all we can do is wait and see.”

  
  


it was bound to happen. 

her father dies. her sister’s husband inherits the household. she has to go back. attend the wake. tend to her nieces and nephews after. make them capable heirs. 

she’s to be taken from your grasp. 

she writes you a letter. departs in the late night. you’d asked—so you wouldn’t have to see her. not like the last time. 

it goes unread. 

  
  
  
  


_1750._

the next time you see her, you’re at a hospital. 

it takes a while, but you’re still the first one to recognise her. 

a cancer patient.

she spends most of her time writing. how haunting it is, to have that as a familiar sight to you, when in this life she’s a complete stranger. she wears spectacles. they slip down her nose when she gets too engrossed with her journal. 

you work as a nurse. it’s been two weeks since you’ve been assigned to her. it feels heavy, the burden of remembering for the both of you, but on days when her pain isn’t too much to bear, she smiles and tells you of her childhood, before the sickness. 

  
  


her mother visits. brings her flowers. 

she hands them to you so you can set them aside. but before you can put the bouquet down, you hear her gasp, then cough, and then she’s trying to leave her bed. 

“darling!” her mother calls. “darling, calm down, what is it?”

you turn. your stomach sinks for a moment, but when you face her she doesn’t look like she’s in pain. 

you realise what you’ve been holding. 

“we’ll talk later, okay?” you say. her eyes widen. she’s still quick to her thinking. understands what you mean. but perhaps that’s cultivated by the fact that you’ve shared two lives together. “later. i’ll give you and your mother some privacy.”

  
  
  


“i hate this.” she sighs, heavy. 

“which?”

“i meet you _now,_ ” she says, “of all times. you couldn’t have come earlier. bought us some time.”

you may have shared lives, but it has always only been fractions. a month on the island. a year in your household. 

this may be the shortest yet. she doesn’t have much time left. you fiddle with your hands in your lap. 

“were you in love with me, too?”

you look up. “was i—”

“you had to be. otherwise we wouldn’t keep meeting like this.” she adjusts herself on her bed. “i knew my heart was yours since i saw you stringing those flowers together.”

you smile, sad. “do you know how difficult it was,” you tell her, “in the last one, for you to be that close to me, but i could never touch you?”

her eyes are so close. you don’t realise that you’ve leant towards her. 

when your lips meet, you realise how long you’ve wanted this. you want to press closer. want to take everything from her. want her to take everything from you. you finally weave your fingers through her hair. she fists a hand in your uniform. 

you pull apart. her lips are swollen. you already crave more. 

“i’m glad i was able to do this, at least,” she says, leaning her forehead against yours. “before i go.”

  
  
  


she passes quietly on a tuesday morning. in her sleep. 

you hide your tears. weep quietly in the corner. 

you wonder when you can have her for longer than a moment. 

  
  
  
  
  


_1839._

the next time you cross paths, it happens quite literally. 

you run a business beside a tea shop. you’re rushing to cross the street toward it when someone bumps into you. 

“sorry, i’m sorry,” she mumbles, and her lethargic cadence seems familiar, but you can’t put a finger on it. 

  
  


after taking inventory, you decide to have lunch at the tea shop—not able to be bothered to go anywhere farther. 

you find a table, get served your dim sum and your tea. you’re careful to eat it, your fingers still stinging from the thorns that had pricked you that morning. 

a figure in the corner of the room catches your attention. 

she looks familiar. it makes your skin itch. a family friend? a childhood neighbour?

you want to turn away but you can’t. you know it’s rude, but you feel restless until you can figure out who she is. you watch her as she takes her meal, try to be as discreet as you can—

but when you move to reach your tea, you end up spilling it in your distraction. 

_around my feet, a fragrant puddle—_

you snap out of it. “my apologies!” you say, while the shopkeepers tend to your mess. 

  
  


the next week is when you realise. 

she’s at the tea shop, but this time, she’s _writing._

you stop in your tracks. she looks so _alive._ coloured cheeks. brows smooth, not furrowed in pain. a back not hunched over by months of heaviness. 

she’s as heart-wrenchingly beautiful as ever. 

you turn around and look at your shop. she’s bound to remember you eventually because—

you’re a _florist._

  
  


you try for several weeks. as subtle as you can. try to be in her path with a handful of baby’s breath. violets. daisies. 

it doesn’t work. she walks right by you, every time. 

eventually you gather all your courage and approach her at the tea shop. walk up to her table, a single tulip in hand. 

“hello,” you greet. 

she looks up. “hello—”

you see it dawn on her face. her mouth twists and her eyes glisten. her breaths come hurriedly. her pen drops onto her table. 

you offer the bloom to her. “it’s nice to see you again,” you say. 

her hand reaches out, but she latches onto your wrist instead. “you’re too late again,” she exhales. a single tear drops onto her cheek. she hiccups. “you’re—”

you hold onto her hand. “why—”

there’s a single, cool spot amongst the warmth of her hand. a band around the base of her finger. you close your eyes. you hang your head. 

  
  
  


“welcome to—”

it’s her. she walks through your door. you rub your hand against your skirt. 

“i’d like a bouquet,” she says. 

“okay.” you head toward the window. “what would you like in it?”

“this’ll sound odd, but.” you hear her take a breath. “you probably know what i want.”

your fists clench and unclench. “alright.”

you get to work. you feel like you’re being pulled apart. you know her but you don’t. you love her when you shouldn’t. but your hand gravitates, moves on its own, on the sheer strength of the two things that have remained constant: your love for flowers, and your love for her. 

“it’s beautiful,” she says when you hand it to her. “it’ll look lovely in our home.”

_our_ home. a knife to the gut. 

“i’m glad you like it.”

she pays and heads out. muscle memory tells you to say _come again!_ but you bite your tongue. you’re too familiar with the sight of her leaving to know that her retreating back is the last you’ll see of her in this life.

  
  
  
  
  


_1956._

the next time you see her is at university. 

it’s convenient. the first time you see her she’s busy taking down notes. she’s in your literature class. the last life’s disaster of her just being a familiar face for a week doesn’t happen this time. 

you search campus for a flower. find a stray plumeria. 

the next time you have class, you chase after her when you’re dismissed. 

“hi,” you say. you’ve put the flower in your hair. 

“oh,” she exhales. “it’s you.”

  
  
  


you don’t waste time. 

you find an empty corridor corner. kiss her. steal the breath from her lungs. put a hand at the back of her neck. she’s just as fervent, just as heated, her hands on your hips. 

you pull apart, and she continues trailing kisses on the hinge of your jaw, your neck. you sigh.

you can’t think of anything, now. no husbands. no diseases. no threat of war. 

just you and her. 

  
  
  


“do you think this one will finally last?” you ask. 

a question that’s been burning since you met her. the two of you are in her room in one of the residence halls. she looks up to face you. 

“i’m a senior,” she tells you. “i graduate in three months.”

“and?” you sit up on her bed. “i’m just a year behind you.”

“look—”

“you’re not going to _wait for me?_ ”

“you know how hard it is—”

“we’ve spent _lifetimes_ —”

“the war devastated _everyone_ —”

“we can call. we can write—”

“i’m all my family has—”

“do you even _want_ this?”

she blanches at that. moves to cradle your face. you flinch away from her. you don’t miss the way she blinks in surprise, in pain. “i’ve always been yours. how else can you explain how we keep meeting?”

“i don’t know,” you answer. “the same way i can’t explain why it is that whenever we meet, you’re the one that leaves.”

that one, you can tell, strikes her. “that’s not fair,” she chokes out, hurt, “that’s not fair. i fucking _died of cancer_ , you’re gonna blame that on me?”

“you still left. this time you don’t have to. and you’re still going to choose to leave.”

her jaw tenses. her nose flares. you can tell she’s holding back tears. 

you take your turn. you stand up. walk away. close the door behind you. 

make her feel the pain you’ve had to endure all this time. 

  
  


you change your usual seat in your literature class. sit by the front. not allowing yourself a view of her. of your most enduring image of her. 

  
  


on the last meeting of the semester, she stops you before you head for the door. 

“just this,” she says. “just allow me this.”

you’re taller than her. she steps toward you and stands on her toes, places a tender kiss to your forehead. you twist a lock of her hair on your finger. 

“we’ll get it right someday,” she whispers. 

all you can do is nod, turn around, and leave. 

  
  
  
  
  


_2016._

there’s something about kato shiho that pulls you. 

she’s beautiful—but so is the rest of the group. she’s funny, but so are kyoko and mei. 

sometimes when you’re close to her something crawls under your skin. like you need to reach out. sometimes when the wind catches her hair you want to tangle your fingers in it. 

it could be a crush. you’ve had many of them before. heightened by a catapult to fame, by the fact that you spend every waking moment together. 

but it still doesn’t feel _right._

  
  


sometimes shiho looks at you like you’ve caused her an incredible amount of pain. 

she steals glances at you sometimes. her bottom lip wobbles before she bites on it and turns away. you can’t remember what you’ve possibly done. embarrass her during the audition? say something out of line? 

probably not. if you had, she would have told kumi, and kumi would have told you. 

and even then she wouldn’t look like … _that._ like you’ve given her a burden she can’t bear. 

  
  


the few times she sits beside you, she always brings along the odd question. 

“aya,” she says. “do you want to go to college?”

“i think about it. my parents want me to—we’re not getting much work, anyway.”

“i know.” she rests her head on the table. “would you take a lit class, if ever?”

you turn to look at her. her eyes are wide. trembling. like she’s looking for something in yours. 

_what does she want from me?_

you wish you could give it. the way shiho looks at you keeps you up at night. you know you want her—but you don’t know _why._ and when her gaze burns into you, like this—

“i could,” you tell her. “it wouldn’t be my first choice, but if it lines up, i could take one.”

she’s quiet. her shoulders perched. like she’s waiting for something. 

seconds stretch into minutes. nothing but the sound of your breathing. she keeps looking at you. you can’t tear your gaze away from her. her brown hair, her downturned eyelids, the starkness of her teeth against her lip when she gnaws on it. 

eventually she lets out a scoff and shakes her head. “alright,” she says, before standing up and leaving. 

  
  


“guys, which life do you think you’re on?”

as always from sarina. you think she could conduct a masterclass on _weird conversation starters._

“kumi’s definitely on her tenth.”

“hey!”

“is meimei even in her first?”

“i heard that.”

“oh, takamoto and i are on our sixth,” shiho says. “i know this for a fact.”

kumi lets out a _pfft_ before bursting into laughter. “the two of you wouldn’t be able to ride the metro if you were alone!”

“doesn’t change the fact that we’re in our sixth,” she sing-songs. 

“why are you dragging takamoto into this?” mana asks. “let her say what life she’s on.”

they all turn to you. shiho’s gaze burns again. 

_our sixth?_

“yeah, toshi, they’re right,” you say. “this is probably my first.”

“ha!” kumi says. 

“whatever,” shiho says. she wrings her wrists and something about that image of her makes you feel uneasy. concerned that she’s in pain? not quite. 

she doesn’t do it often, but you feel like you’ve seen it before. 

  
  


despite everything, your want for shiho never wanes. 

sometimes you can feel like you can silence storms just by the strength of her smile. fall mountains with the way her eyes look in the sun. end dynasties with the sound of your name in her mouth. 

it feels too little and too much at the same time. 

it’s like you never knew how to want someone before shiho. 

like you’ve wanted her for longer than you can remember. 


	2. i will protest you with my favourite vow

_2020._

a lot changes. 

a debut. a rename. new members. graduations. busier days. longer nights. the end of an era. the beginning of a new one. 

a lot changes, but—

“good morning,” shiho greets, entering your dressing room. 

a lot changes, but if there’s one thing that doesn’t, it’s _her_.

“kato-san,” hina calls. “nano-chan, she may not look it, but kato-san’s good at this.”

“ _hey—_ ”

“nano’s having trouble with her homework,” hina says.

you watch them from the mirror you’ve held up. hinano’s gingerly holding up a piece of paper. shiho’s more clever than she lets on—you know just as much.

hinano sits beside her. shiho takes the sheet from her hands, lays it over a stiff piece of cardboard she found on the floor. places it on her lap. 

you watch her read the problem as you fill in your brows. her tongue sticking out in her concentration. midway, she asks hinano for her pencil. 

“try this,” she says, and begins writing down a solution.

_writing._

you feel like all the air is sucked out from the room. you drop your mirror. the glass shatters to pieces on the floor. 

you’re flooded. you can’t move. can barely breathe. shiho in the sunrise. shiho frail in a hospital bed. shiho’s tears spilling onto your forearm. shiho waking you in the morning. kissing her in an empty hall. putting flowers around her neck. 

_you’re too late again; the war devastated everyone; one, two, three, four, five; before i go; will this keep happening?_

wanting more than you know how to. not knowing sadness quite like when she leaves. 

fights. death. departures. repetition. 

_lifetimes_.

“—ka. ayaka. _ayaka!_ ”

and there she is.

you don’t know when she got this close. she’s holding onto your hands. you look at them—you’re bleeding. you must have tried to pick up the pieces of broken glass. the other members have gathered around you. mikuni hands shiho a box of bandages. she tapes a few on your fingers.

“take, just what on _earth_ —”

“i remember.”

“you—”

shiho’s grip on loosens. your hands drop onto your lap. you swallow the lump that’s formed in your throat. wipe your tears with your sleeve. you barely even realised that you’ve been crying.

“i—i remember—” and your chest can’t keep up with you. you feel like you can’t get enough air into your lungs.

“we’ll—” shiho swallows. her voice is broken. you think she could be crying, too. “we’ll talk later, okay? we have places in five.”

a make up artist takes your hand. hurriedly tries to cover up the bandages as best as she can. 

“shiho.”

“ _later,_ ” she says, like it takes all the strength from her body to do so.

  
  


you don’t know how you got through the performance. barely even remember it. 

once it finishes, shiho pulls you aside. tugs on your arm until you find the women’s bathroom. she leads you into a stall. locks the door. 

“you _remember?_ ” shiho whispers. 

you nod. “i remember.”

“how much?”

“a lot,” you say. “five times before this one.”

“okay.” she purses her lips. “okay—yeah, that’s what i know, too.”

neither of you say a word. and now that your mind isn’t busy going a million miles a minute, you realise how _close_ shiho is to you. her front pressing against yours. your back to the wall. every inhale you take makes your head spin. you wish you could take a step backward. 

but this is _her._

if anything, you can’t be close _enough._

“what makes you remember me?” she asks. “because you’re always the first one to remember, i had no idea how to—”

“writing,” you answer. “i always remember when i see you writing.”

“you’ve _never seen me write?_ ” she asks. “and—hold on. _writing?_ ”

you nod. “maybe i’ve seen you write? but if i did, never long enough to trigger the memories. i’m always so focused whenever we’re given surveys, or tests, i never really look around … and now that we all have phones—“

you realise something that makes you stop in your tracks. 

“wait.”

shiho’s brows furrow. “what?”

“you only remember me when i’m around flowers,” you say. “it’s always flowers. have you—”

“i remembered you,” she says, “the moment i found out your name.”

your name.

in this life it’s takamoto ayaka. 

ayaka. 

_ayaka._

_colorful flowers._

“ _fuck_ ,” you hiss, bang your hand against the wall. “fuck—that long?”

“yeah,” shiho says, “and now that you mention writing—”

kato shiho. 

_shiho._

_shi_ , to record. history. 

_ho,_ a sail. 

the very first life. 

“fucking—i should have taken kanji more seriously— _fuck_ ,” you say, resting your head against the wall. 

“hey, it’s okay,” shiho soothes. she takes your cheek in her hands and urges you to face her. “you remember now.”

your lip trembles again. it’s a lot. realising why you’ve been so in love with her. why it never faded. 

she rubs her thumb against your cheek. she leans in. 

you kiss her, and everything in your chest settles down. you kiss her and it feels like everything you’ve ever imagined and nothing you could ever dream of. she licks into your mouth. swallows your breaths. you take her face into your hands, try to gain more leverage. she places her hand against the wall and pins you there. 

you pull apart. shiho sighs, “when i tell you i’ve waited a lifetime to do that…”

you smile. tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “sorry i took so long.”

  
  


four years is a long time. 

it’s the longest one of you has taken to recognise the other. 

it’s also the longest you two have spent without being pulled apart. 

you don’t know why she chooses to go to sapporo in the middle of autumn. 

it’s almost cruelly cold. the two of you are seated on a park bench, the wind biting. the tips of shiho’s nose and ears are red. she holds a hot chocolate to keep herself warm. 

there’s an odd urgency. you feel like an unavoidable event that’ll cause you two to separate will happen soon. shiho takes you on impromptu trips—to shibuya one day, shizuoka the next. when she’d shown you the tickets to here, you almost couldn’t believe her. you two both got an earful from management, but they let you go eventually. 

sometimes shiho kisses you and pulls you and loves you like you’re running out of time. maybe you are. 

“i know,” shiho says. “i know. i’m paranoid, but—can you blame me?”

you smile. “how could you tell?”

“we’re soulmates or something,” she mumbles in reply. takes another sip. “i mean, i’m sure you’ve had moments where you could tell what _i_ was thinking.”

“don’t be silly.” you scrunch your nose and place a kiss on her cheek. she flinches—your lips are cold. 

“anyway.” she clears her throat. “you’re not thinking of graduating soon, are you?”

“nope.” you take her one of her hands. fiddle with her fingers. “we built this group from the ground up, toshi. i’m seeing _all_ the fruits of our labour before i go.”

she giggles. even her laugh has that molasses-drip slowness. “i feel the same.”

it’s quiet for a few moments before shiho says, “then maybe we can make this one last.”

you interlace your fingers together. “we can only hope.”

  
  


“do you believe that we can only have five lives?”

“ayaka,” she says, “this is _at least_ our sixth.”

“no, i mean—” you sit up. let the blanket fall off your shoulders. “maybe we only have five and because we _royally_ screwed the fifth one up, we were given this last chance?”

“you’re wondering about that _now?_ ” shiho asks. “was it _that_ bad? or—wait. that _good?_ ”

“you are _insufferable._ ” you sigh, lying back down, head hitting the pillow. 

“look,” she says. “i’m sorry about the last one, okay? i knew that was our biggest shot at being together.”

you wave a hand. “it’s okay,” you reply. “we’re together now.”

at that, shiho crawls so that she’s above you. she lowers herself to kiss you on your hairline. “we sure are,” she says. 

“are you okay with this being our last one?”

she nuzzles into your neck. “you’re always worth it, ayaka.”

“i mean, there’s definitely more to our lives than each other,” you tell her, “but if this is our last one—”

“this is already the longest we’ve had,” shiho points out. 

“how— _ah_.” you’re interrupted when shiho sucks a mark onto your collarbone. “how sad.”

shiho continues her work. leaves a trail of kisses down your chest, your stomach. you put your fingers in her lovely hair. it’s funny how it carries on, the parts of her you have a near obsession with. you remember how you’d scratch on your palm so you wouldn’t reach out and grab a fistful of it.

but now—

“we don’t have to be sad anymore,” she says, looking up. pupils blown. eyes almost completely dark. 

“ _oh._ ”

  
  


sometimes you can tell what shiho wants to say with just a glance. 

a shy smile. a twist of her mouth. a crane of her neck, a twitch of a brow. when she wants you to come close. when she has something troubling her. when she’s overwhelmed and needs to take a breather. when something you’ve said doesn’t sit well with you. 

she sits three seats away from you on the other side of the table. it’s a group dinner. 

the night has wound down. it’s a little past midnight. 

shiho sends you a weary glance. she wants to leave. 

you nod but hold up a hand. _just give me a little longer._

she pouts. she’s tired. 

_go ahead_ , you mouth, before taking a sip of your water. 

her shoulders sink. she tilts her head. she only wants to leave with you. 

you roll your eyes. _you can—_

“that’s it!” kyoko slams a hand on the table. some of the plates shake with the intensity of it. “kumi, we’re settling this _now_.”

all of you are frozen for a moment, the additional weight in kyoko’s already heavy voice sending a chill down the entire table. _how long have they been arguing?_ but even if they have, they wouldn’t do it like this, here, in front of everyone—

both of them turn to face shiho. 

“kato shiho-san,” kumi calls. 

she puts a hand to her chest. “me?!”

jesus christ. what could she have done—

kumi leans toward her. “are you and ayaka together?”

you drop your chopsticks in surprise. you hurriedly pick them back up and clear your throat. shiho’s looking at you. eyes almost comically wide. looking for a bail-out. 

you raise your brows at her. _they asked you._

she shakes her head. she’s leaving it to you. 

you sigh. 

you could say no. lie to everyone. keep you and shiho to yourselves, because you wouldn’t even be able to _begin_ answering their questions. _since when?_ would you say seven months ago? or five centuries? _who asked the other out?_ neither of you did, in this life. 

but then this is the group. the members. who know you better than your family. than yourself. they shouldn’t be lied to. and anyway, if they could tell already by themselves that there was _something_ going on—

“you got us,” you say, raising both your hands up. “we’re dating.”

an awful, horrid silence. not even a singular chuckle. or a cough. or a sigh. 

until kyoko opens up her palm in kumi’s direction. 

kumi blows an exhale through her mouth before rummaging in her purse. she fishes out a thousand-yen bill. puts it in kyoko’s awaiting hand. 

“you _bet on this?!_ ” shiho screeches. 

“i’ve had to watch you look at ayaka with your googly eyes for years,” kumi mumbles, “might as well have fun with it.”

but if _that_ didn’t send a blow to shiho already—

you see another bill being passed around. you look and see it’s from suzuka. it ends up with hiyori who pockets it with a grin. 

oh that’ll _definitely_ kill shiho—

haruyo tries to hide the fact that she’s handing something to marii, but you catch it all the same. from shiho’s horrified face, you can tell that she saw it, too. 

“how obvious have we been?” shiho hisses to you, under her breath. 

you shrug. “obvious enough, i guess.”

  
  


the three-day stretch before a concert is always the worst. 

your sense of time has been completely deconstructed. you feel like you’re not in your own body. you’ve been running on fumes. everything’s a little fuzzy. 

you feel like you don’t know what it’s like to not be tired anymore. while you feel that concerts are always rewarding in the end—the energy, the excitement—the exhaustion always seems almost unbearable.

staff calls for five. you sit down from where you were standing, right in the middle of the stage.

everyone scatters. for a snack, for some rest, for some solace away from the lights. your head hurts. 

you see shiho take the stairs down from the stage to the arena floor. it’s almost completely dark where she’s headed. and with the haze in your head, with the exhaustion all the way in your bones, for a moment, she’s not just leaving rehearsal.

for a moment, you see other things. shiho just doesn’t walk away. she’s wheeled in a stretcher to the morgue. you see her opening the door to exit your flower shop. you see her boarding a ship and sailing away. you see her leave, over and over again, as if you’re back there, and you can’t bear it, can’t take this anymore, you _promised_ that this one would last, and your chest squeezes, it’s almost too much to bear—

“ _no,_ ” you scream, and your voice breaks. “ _shiho!_ ”

and then it’s chaos. you hear footsteps—a lot of them. calls for your name. you collapse onto the stage floor. force yourself to stay conscious. 

and then there’s shiho, hoisting you up. she holds you against her. “ayaka,” she says, and there’s that voice. like honey flow. “ayaka, i’m right here.”

she rubs circles on your back. you count your breaths. you hear her, muffled, _i’ve got her,_ she says, _i’ve got her, guys, i’m sure she’s just tired_.

for a long time, she just holds you. reminds you of your inhales, your exhales.

the fog in your head clears. your breaths even out.

“you okay now?” she asks.

you nod. pull away from her grasp. she wipes your fringe off your face. hands you the water bottle you had beside you. her brows wrinkle. “what happened?”

“my head was messing with me,” you tell her after emptying the bottle, the plastic crinkling in your hand. “i’m just so tired.”

“get some rest when you can,” shiho tells you. “but what _happened?_ ”

you swallow. exhale. “you were going down those stairs, and i don’t know, it was just—” you crane your head. look up. “i saw it all again. every time you left.”

you realise that you never really knew just what sort of heartbreak was brought about by all those times. never allowed yourself to feel it. you told yourself they couldn’t be helped—she was a slave, she was of a lower rank, she was sick, she was married, she had to pick up the pieces that the war left behind. 

but in that one moment, you felt all of the hurt, condensed into a singularity, pressing down on your chest.

“i’m sorry,” you hear shiho say. “look at me?”

you do. you’ve never seen her like this. sadness and hurt and frustration, all painted across her lovely face. “i’m sorry.”

you shake your head. “it’s okay,” you tell her. “i think you’ve paid for it enough.”

you can’t imagine what it was like for her, in this life. you can’t imagine to be around her and have her not know who you are. to have her everywhere, at every waking moment. days starting and ending with her looking at you not knowing the lifetimes you’ve had. 

you don’t know which of you had it worse.

“then we should stop owing each other,” shiho whispers. “leave it all behind.”

you fist your fingers in her training vest. crumple her name in your hands. “leave it all behind.”

  
  


leaving it all behind means learning everything anew.

learning that shiho prefers the autumn to the spring. that she doesn’t like tying her hair up. that she can never sleep before midnight. that she’s been wearing the same perfume for at least seven years, and can’t bring herself to change. that she prefers to wrap her arm around your waist over you wrapping your arm around her shoulders. that she doesn’t like surprises. that she can’t eat lettuce. that she likes kissing the junction between your neck and your shoulder.

you learn how to watch shiho leave. to settle yourself when you see her back, moving away from you. to see her closing a door behind her. to see her getting into a car that speeds away. you learn how to calm the nerves that ramp up when she does. it’s easy—she always comes back to you, anyway. a few minutes, a few hours, the next morning—she’s always moving toward you again.

shiho unlearns to love you like you’re running out of time. she’ll still invite you to a trip saying nothing but what to bring and what time to meet, but she’s also more than content with spending forty-eight hours not leaving your bed. she learns to love you slowly. learns to love you without waiting for a sunset. 

you learn a lot of things with her. how to fight. voices raised, tears hot. a quiet apology the next afternoon. how to be apart. shiho doesn’t gravitate toward you in the dressing room anymore, but she still looks for you, every so often, her neck craned until she finds you. you spend nights out with other friends, but always make sure to let shiho know when you’re home safe. you learn how to tolerate each other’s quirks. break each other’s bad habits. how to be each other’s anchor in a storm. how to accept each other’s flaws, but point out each other’s mistakes. how to make each other feel better on a bad day. how to be each other’s best supporter. how to make each other better people.

you and shiho learn what it’s finally like to be in love.

  
  


“familiar sight, isn’t it?”

“you could say that.”

it was your turn to invite her out. a night on isshiki beach. you need to board the train back in four hours, but you indulge yourself with this sight.

the sun rises above the sea. like it’s done so many times before. colours the sky. makes light glimmer off the water.

and then there’s shiho beside you. her eyes glowing amber in the sun. her soft hair flowing. you reach out. run your hands through it. marvel at how it becomes silken gold in the light. 

“you know,” you tell her, “the first time i saw you on the beach, i thought that i was being rewarded by the gods.”

shiho snorts. “for what?”

you shrug. “i don’t know,” you say. retract your hand. “but i couldn’t think of any other reason why they’d let me have that view.”

she nods. “sounds about right.”

you chuckle. “so modest, too.”

shiho rolls her eyes, but not before you see her cheeks flush. 

it’s quiet again. you’re calmed by the splashing of the waves onto the shore. the quiet chirping. the soft breeze blowing. 

“you think we’re finally doing it?” shiho asks. “making this one last?”

you pull your knees to your chest. rest your chin onto it. “maybe.”

“nothing’s happened yet,” she tells you. “and i can’t think of anything that will.”

you hum. draw patterns in the sand. 

“we’ll pull it off, this time.” her voice is strong. “buy a house. travel the world. grow _old_ together.”

“are you proposing to me, kato shiho-san?” you turn to face her, your cheek resting on your knees. 

she leans back on her arms. “maybe,” she replies. “but—”

“yeah,” you exhale. “no, i get it.”

_proposal_ and _marriage_ and _fianceé_ and _wife_ don’t even come _close_ to what you consider shiho as. what you feel for her. 

but what’s a word for how you love her? 

you love her so much that it transcends centuries. lifetimes. you love her so much that the fabric of spacetime bows before the beating of your heart. you love her so much that there’s no reason to it. for it. 

“let’s stay here for a while.”

there’s a weight to shiho’s words. maybe she means the two of you. here, now. the sand getting hotter beneath your feet. just until you need to get back. watch the sea. soak in the sun. forget about what you have to get back to. have this moment to yourselves. 

but maybe she means stay here. in _these lives._ in these bodies, with these names. to not tempt fate to see if you’ll meet again in the next. persevere. work through everything that comes your way. make sure you don’t just cross paths. that you walk one together. 

you want to. you’ll make sure to. whether it’s sealed by a ring on your finger or just by a hushed promise beneath the moon. 

you rest your head on her shoulder. watch daybreak arrive. 

“let’s.”

**Author's Note:**

> as always, feel free to leave your thoughts here or on my [cc](http://curiouscat.me/pisceshorizon) ♡


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